


Up Against the Winter Winds

by TigerOfSummer



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fluff, Post - A Dance With Dragons, Post-Canon, Smut, Winterfell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-08 08:12:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5490032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TigerOfSummer/pseuds/TigerOfSummer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After many grueling battles and countless sacrifices, Sansa is named Wardeness of the North by King Stannis Baratheon. But a new title brings with it new responsibilities, and a looming threat from the North means the flaming-heart banners are not like to leave Winterfell's walls anytime soon. Sansa must now maneuver her way around yet another King, all the while concealing her dangerous relationship with Sandor. Slowly but surely, questions are raised regarding many unknown secrets, and Sansa soon learns things she never would have imagined...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I've officially gone off the deep end and into this dark sea of unknown territory. Yes, it's a sequel to Winged Knights and their Favors. You don't necessarily have to have read it to know what's going on in this story, but I would recommend reading it anyway just to be sure (I'll add a link to the end of this chapter). SanSan have an already established romantic/sexual relationship. This work is un-Beta'd for the moment but I am still looking for any potential Betas, so if you're willing just let me know! Any additional tags will be added at the beginning of subsequent chapters and to the summary when needed. Other than that, sit back, put on your seat belts, and enjoy another wild ride in the cold, cold North...

_It pains me deeply to write these next words,_ she continued, then paused as the memory came rushing back. She closed her eyes, trying to push away the dark thoughts.

The black ink dried onto the parchment before her, the warmth from the hearth bathing her from her left. It was a little past the hour of the Raven but the sun was already well on its decent in the grey sky. Sansa took a deep breath. Such were the days in Winter, it seemed, shorter and darker than Spring, which was all that she had known in her eight and ten years of life. The hour of the Raven had passed, and soon the maester’s black-feathered messengers would be locked away. It did not matter. The letter she was writing would need no raven for where it was going.

_Harrold Hardyng died valiantly on the field of battle, just on the outskirts of Winterfell, may the Gods rest his soul. By some ill-fated circumstance I am yet too weary to recount, I laid witness to his death at the hands of a Bolton man. They say it was Ramsay Snow, the bastard son of Roose Bolton. It makes no matter who it was that killed him, however – all of Bolton’s men are dead, including him._

There was a flash of black and red steel in her mind's eye as Brienne’s sword came down upon Roose Bolton’s neck once again. _May your blade be sharp, Lady Stark._ A shudder raked through her despite the warmth of her chambers.

_I know how well you admired him,_ Sansa went on, _He was every inch in life the princely knight of our girlhood dreams…_ She felt her heart breaking as she penned the proper praises for her deceased husband. Talons of guilt wrapped around her throat as she recalled who, and for what, he had died for. _For me,_ she thought, _for my desire to come home._ She recalled the way Lothor Brune had stood aside as he watched the blade glide across Harry’s throat, the way he had done _nothing_ and how Sansa had failed, once again, to protect a loved one from…from _him._

But Petyr Baelish was far away from her, now. Where, no one knew, but stripped of any allies and as yet no power to think of, he could do nothing to harm her or anyone she loved ever again.

A knock came to the door. “M’lady?” called her handmaiden, “You requested I tell you when the men were making ready to leave-”

“Yes, Harriet, thank you. I’ll just be a moment longer.”

Sansa hurriedly finished off her letter to Myranda Royce and rolled it with a fine, grey ribbon. She quickly sealed it and blew on the warm direwolf sigil that secured the letter, gathered the rest of her letters, and stood to put on her cloak and leather gloves.

The points of her thick boots poked out from below her black skirts as she walked across the slush in the yard. There was shouting and fumbling and large carriages moving out of the main gates, barrels and trunks filled with heavy goods being lugged and thrown about. Everyone was wrapped in their heavy furs, the mists of countless, warm breaths filling the cold evening air. Sansa saw soldiers fitted in their armor and helmets guiding their horses away, some carrying torches to light their way in the waning sunlight. Her eyes searched the crowds for the familiar cream-and-blue cloak of the Winged Guard, worrying that they had already left.

“Ser Albar!” she exclaimed when she spotted the knight. He stood a little ways off near the armory speaking with Ser Roland. Sansa only just missed being crushed by a large wagon wheel on her way to him. 

“Woah there, my lady! Do be careful not to ruin those letters!” japed Roland. 

“Yes, think nothing of my safety but of my letters, _kind ser,”_ Sansa replied sarcastically, “Where are your knightly manners?”

“I’m afraid those bits of me were the first to freeze off when I got here.” He smiled.

“Well,” she sighed, “You’ll be warm enough again once you’re finally home.” She turned to Ser Albar and addressed him. “Ser, this letter is for your sister. Would you be so kind to deliver them to her for me? She will know what to do with the others.” There was a letter for Mya Stone in the pile as well. Sansa had written that one a few days prior, remembering how difficult it had been for her to explain that Lothor had chosen to leave with Petyr. She hoped Mya would not be too worried with that news, seeing as the two had been friends for so long.

“Of course I will, my lady.” Myranda’s brother took the letters and went to add them to the saddlebag strapped to his blanketed horse. 

“It looks as though I should ready my saddle, as well,” Roland commented from beside her. Some men-at-arms were gathering the last of the equipment and calling for the last of the men and servants to hitch rides on the few remaining carriages. From across the yard, Sansa saw King Stannis grasping gloved hands with Bronze Yohn as they said their goodbyes. 

“He doesn’t seem very happy,” Sansa commented.

“Which one? The half-starved King who makes human sacrifices or the old Lord who wears special armor to ward off evil spirits?”

Sansa rolled her eyes but could not help the smirk that drew across her face. “The King,” she clarified, “Our King.” _Of course he’s unhappy,_ she thought to herself, _loyalty will not feed nor house an army the size of Lord Royce’s._ Without any coin of his own, and with Winterfell’s food stores quickly depleting, Bronze Yohn risked the ire of his King to save his men by taking them back south, leaving Stannis nothing but the promise of his fealty should the King ever decide to march South to Kingslanding. That was another thing altogether, whether the Baratheon King ever did intend on marching South…

“I don’t think that man ever had it in him to be happy,” Roland said, “I, on the other hand, will be happy as a goat in a haystack once I get on that ship.” He gave her a look of concern. “Truly, I do not know how you think you will withstand this cold.”

“I will fare just fine,” she assured him. _I pray._

The majority of the party for the Vale would be traveling down the White Knife to White Harbor and then to Runestone. Bronze Yohn and his men would remain there while the rest of their party journeyed by land back to the Gates of the Moon.

“I suppose this is goodbye, then,” Sansa said, turning to the young knight. They pulled one another into an embrace. “Take care, Wardeness,” he said once he released her, “and do remember to write. And spell, and speak, and-” 

“Very funny,” she interrupted, playfully pushing him towards his horse. “Safe journeys,” she added once he was mounted, waving a gloved hand at him.

“Safe journeys, Ser,” added a woman’s voice by her side.

It was Brienne who had spoken. Her long, woolen cloak hung around her heavy silver armor, the golden hilt of Oathkeeper jutting out from where it was strapped to her hip. The ruby eyes of the lion glinted up at her. 

“Lady Brienne,” Roland nodded, “It was a pleasure to serve by your side. Lady Stark.” He nodded once more, then led his horse away, leaving Sansa and Brienne alone in the quickly emptying yard.

As they walked slowly back toward the castle, Brienne spoke. “Although I am saddened to see them go, I am thankful for the extra living space. They were good and courteous company, of course, unlike Umber’s men. I would have preferred they went on their way instead.”

“And leave me with King Stannis’ undivided attention? I pray not.” A thought came to her then. “How did his meeting go earlier? I know you were in the hall when it occurred.”

A cloud of mist rose and disappeared when Brienne sighed. “Not so well, I believe. He’s received news that Queen Selyse is attempting to interfere with the affairs of the free folk in the North. She is trying to name one Gerrick’s Kingsblood as the true King of the Wildlings.”

“That is a bit worrisome for King Stannis’ sake, but she is the Queen. My half-brother will protect her.”

Brienne’s step slowed down considerably. “There has also been some news about the Lord Snow, my lady.” Sansa turned and eyed her with a questioning look. They were just half-way up the stair when suddenly Sansa saw him across the yard.

Sandor Clegane walked not too far off with Sergeant Beron in the yard, just turning back to the castle after saying their final goodbyes to the soldiers and knights and men-at-arms. Sansa stared at his scarred face, the expression there hard to read. His dark eyes seemed distracted until they found her gaze. Then they looked almost angry before he made a remark to Beron. When they walked up to the castle and past the two women, he did not even spare her a second glance. Sansa’s heart sank.

“What troubles the two of you?” Brienne asked, calling Sansa back to the moment at hand.

“Forgive me,” Sansa said, almost to herself. “It was just a… a disagreement. What was it you were saying? About Jon?”

Brienne grimaced. The scars on her cheeks grew a deeper shade of purple in the cold. “It may be better we discuss this inside,” she suggested. Sansa’s heart only sank deeper.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sansa led Brienne to an empty parlor in the Great Keep. Many of the fine tapestries and ornaments that had once lined the walls of the keep had been pillaged, but Winterfell was beginning to look more and more like the way it had before every passing day. It was certainly cleaner, and now that that Bronze Yohn’s soldiers had departed, there would be fewer soldiers relegated to setting up camp in the corridors. The room they were in now was bare but for some heavy curtains and a small fireplace near an empty row of shelves. Sansa slid her fingers over the dark outline of what might’ve been the base of a candlestick.

“Do not be alarmed,” Brienne opened, and instantly Sansa felt herself growing alarmed. Brienne frowned, but decided to just come out with it.

“There’s been a mutiny,” she deadpanned. 

Sansa was taken aback. “A mutiny? Against Jon?” That was unthinkable. _He was voted into power,_ Sansa recalled. _How can the very men who wanted him for their leader go against him? At least they had a choice._ “What’s happened to him? Is he alright?”

“Well, my lady, I must be honest with you – they showed little mercy to your half-brother. He was stabbed by a number of brothers-”

Sansa gasped. Her throat was beginning to tighten in grief, a grief so deep and familiar, one she had not felt since she had learned of Robb and mother’s deaths. She reached out for the shelf nearby to steady herself. _Please, gods, not Jon, too. Haven’t you taken enough?_ Brienne rushed to her side, holding her elbow. 

“Sansa, I know it seems dire, impossible even, but there was no word of his death,” Brienne said. “There is a priestess who is tending to him now.”

“You mean,” she choked out, then cleared her throat. “You mean he’s still alive? My brother is still alive?”

“He isn’t dead, my lady. That is as much as I know.”

Sansa was fighting to calm the sickness that threatened to overcome her when she looked at Brienne strangely. “He isn’t dead,” she repeated Brienne’s words. “What sort of priestess is looking after him?”

“A red priestess,” Brienne said with some assurance, “I have seen what these followers of R’hllor can accomplish. I am sure Jon will come back, Sansa.”

 _Come back?_ Questions swam around in Sansa’s mind, about what Brienne meant and what exactly she had seen accomplished. But instead, she decided to trust in the warrior’s faith, despite how much she disliked the followers of R’hllor. “I wish so much that I could see him. That I could tend to him myself,” she admitted. Her eyes began to water, thinking upon Jon all alone, his own men threatening his life. “How am I to trust that this priestess will save him? Who is she to him?”

“King Stannis seems to trust her. She was one of his most trusted advisors when he was north of the Wall. She only stayed because her powers were stronger in the north, or so she claimed.”

“Let us hope as much is true,” Sansa said. She did not care what faith this woman belonged to, so long as she was able to save Jon. “Was there any word as to why they attacked him?”

“There I could only pick up bits and pieces,” Brienne admitted, “though I am sure it had something to do with Jon wanting to ride south to fight the Boltons. The men of the Night’s Watch disagreed, of course. It would mean forsaking their vows to get involved with the affairs of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Sansa scoffed. “Their vows are to protect the Seven Kingdoms. Surely Jon did not deserve to be _killed_ for wanting to help! Vows be damned!”

She surprised herself with her outburst. Brienne almost smiled. “You sound like him,” the woman commented. Sansa knew exactly which _him_ she was referring to. “If I may, what was this… disagreement between you two? The man did not seem entirely himself in the yard. He seemed to be brooding.”

“You mean more than usual?” Sansa could not help but add. She sighed. “I just said the wrong thing to the wrong person. Things should right themselves soon enough.” _I should right them as soon as he gives me a moment alone._

Brienne looked upon her with empathy. “I am sure he will come to see things your way soon, and you his.”

Sansa was grateful Brienne did not inquire further. Frankly, she was too embarrassed to go into any further detail. “Come, let us go prepare for supper. You must be wanting to remove all that armor…” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Brienne walked Sansa back to her chambers and Sansa ordered a warm bath to be brought up. Once she was fresh and clean, she slipped on her layered underclothes and a thick but elegant ebony gown. When she went to retrieve some jewelry from her vanity, her eyes caught sight of a singular item. The necklace hung from a hook in a jewel box, the white silver of the thin chain glimmering, the clear, green-blue stone hanging as a drop of seawater from the chain. Sandor had gifted her the necklace when they had departed White Harbor for Winterfell many moons ago. Surely if she wore this necklace tonight, he would know it as a signal plain as day. Whether he would respond as she hoped remained to be seen.

Sansa clasped the hook of the necklace near her clavicle and then turned to observe herself in the mirror. Her hair had been washed of any remaining brown dye that had once belonged to Alayne. It now flowed in soft auburn curls down her back past her shoulder blades. She touched the stone at her neck once, thinking on what she might say to Sandor once they were alone. _If_ they were alone. The stone was a brilliant contrast to the darkness of her gown. Then a knock came to her door.

When Sansa opened it, she was met with the brown eyes and dark curls of Larence Snow. _Hornwood, now,_ Sansa reminded herself, remembering that Stannis had chosen to legitimize him since his father and half-brother had died. That made young Larence the Lord of Hornwood. He was also the reason Sandor was upset with her at the moment, of which Sansa did not blame him. She forced a smile when she greeted him, and a blush crept up his neck when he smiled in return.

“My lady, I’m to escort you to supper this evening, if you would have me.”

“Of course, my lord,” Sansa responded, taking the elbow he had offered.

He kept his eyes focused on the ground as they walked, as if to make sure he did not trip on the carpet. “You look stunning, as ever,” he complimented. “While Winter bears down on us it only seems to bring you higher.”

Sansa had the courtesy to blush at that. “You’re very kind.” She patted his arm in a very friendly manner, hoping he had not forgotten how she had asked that they only remain friends after he told her about a possible betrothal between the two of them. He had admired her since he first visited the Gates of the Moon. Larence was neither uncomely nor unkind, and though he was bastard-born he was the son of a lord and had been warden to another, so he knew how to behave gentlemanly. He was also about the same height as Sansa and only slightly wider of shoulder. In truth, he looked very much like a boy to her.

“What have the cooks managed to put together this evening, do you know?” Sansa asked, venturing for some topic of conversation.

“Probably more vegetable stew,” he said, uninterested in her attempt at small talk. “So, my lady, pray tell me how things fare with this one who has stolen your heart? I admit I envy him everyday.”

 _It seems he has not forgotten my mishap after all._ In her excitement to finally make a decision for herself regarding her hand in marriage, Sansa had accidently told him that her heart belonged to another. She had lived to regret those words for many days now, seeing as how Larence had not left a single person unknown to the fact.

“Not so well,” she said, and that was not wholly untrue. Her next words, however… “He has left with the Vale’s party earlier today. I know not when I will see him again, and I do not think I will be likely to move on from him so quickly.” She hoped Larence would let the topic die already. They rounded a corner as they neared the main hall. “As the good friend that you are, my Lord, I am sure you will understand.”

“I understand, of course,” he said. “If you do not wish to speak on it further I will understand.”

“Thank you,” she replied, somewhat relieved but knowing it would not be last she would heard of it. _I was so foolish to say such a thing,_ she reprimanded herself, not for the first time. _So soon after Harry’s death as well. What was I thinking?_

She remembered exactly what she was thinking when she finally entered the Great Hall and met Sandor’s eyes before anyone else’s. He was speaking with some men-at-arms when he saw her, his eyes falling to her necklace and then finding her eyes again before turning his attention back to the men. Out of his armor and in a leather tunic, he seemed less imposing and more at ease, though his face was unreadable as ever. Sansa’s heart fluttered nervously, hoping he understood her plea for him. Larence led her to her seat on the dais where the lords and ladies sat for supper. The first course had already been served and her dish of steaming stew and warm bread sat untouched at her place.

Sansa gave a slight curtsey when Larence kissed her hand before he left to find his place on the other end of the table. It was only when she took her seat in the high-backed oaken chair when she realized who was sitting beside her.

“Good evening, Lady Dustin,” Sansa said as she smoothed a kerchief over her lap. The older woman’s hair was bound in a widow’s knot at the nape of her neck, gray streaks weaving in and out of the brown hair there. Her face was stern, but Sansa decided to read that as her usual countenance rather than any distaste for her presence. 

“Wardeness,” the woman raised a thin brow at her in acknowledgment, and Sansa could not help but suspect some distaste in her voice. The woman was halfway through her stew, but now she regarded Sansa with some curiosity. Sansa decided to speak.

“I hope you’ve enjoyed the stew, my lady. The glass garden has been doing better after the men cleared the pipes and drainage systems. We’ll have vegetables to last us all Winter.”

“And you think this thin stew will feed us all throughout, I suppose?” She seemed to be mocking her.

Sansa did not let that remark irk her as it was intended. She was grateful for the stew and proud for ordering the glass gardens be repaired before anything else. “Surely it is better than the sawdust-bread Bolton had been feeding you,” she replied.

Lady Dustin only ‘hmph-ed’ and took another lady-like sip of her stew. Sansa took the opportunity to try some for herself. It was plain and unsavory, but better than nothing. From across the trestle table, King Stannis was seated in her father’s old chair with the large Lord Wyman Manderly on his right and the elder Lord Umber on his left. They ate unspeaking. In fact, the whole hall would have been engulfed in silence if it were not for the gentle music of a mandarin, played by an older brown-haired man in the corner. He sat some ways off at an old table with only one other man who appeared to be one of Umber’s men, judging by how he coveted his tankard. Sansa had heard Ramsay had kept the musician captive, for reasons no one yet understood.

Even though their departure had been necessary for survival, Sansa could not help but feel that the Vale’s soldiers had taken much of the life of Winterfell along with them. Yes, soldiers now had enough room at the tables to not have to eat on the floor and in the halls. And yes, Wintertown no longer needed to be fed and all the smallfolk were given lodgings inside the warm castle walls. But, Sansa felt with some despondence, the Northerners were no longer what she remembered them to be. There were very few women and children, and the overwhelmingly male presence was collectively somber and tired. And waiting. Waiting for Stannis’ next decision, the next march, the next purpose in life.

But King Stannis was making no such decisions. Every day passed and still here he stayed – sleeping in her parents’ bedchambers, sitting in her father’s chair. Sansa feared he meant to make Winterfell the new seat of his regency. _And where would that leave me?_

“You are still in mourning, are you not?” Lady Dustin’s voice broke her chain of thought.

Sansa looked at her, then down at her dark skirts. “It is customary to mourn the death of a husband for at least three turns of a moon.”

The woman’s brown eyes flickered to Sansa’s necklace as she took a sip of her wine. Sansa knew a disapproving look when she saw one.

Lady Dustin swallowed her wine. “Then why have you been courting the young Lord of Hornwood?”

“You are mistaken, my lady. He is only my good friend. I have no intentions to romance the boy.”

“Is that so?” she asked. “Is a northern lord no longer good enough for a Wardeness?”

“You forget I am northern myself, my lady,” Sansa reminded her.

Lady Dustin pursed her lips. “You’ve been away so long your mannerisms have become very… southern. Not to mention the Tully hair that sets you apart.”

Sansa decided against a retort. _She cannot make me feel an outsider in my own home._ She did not understand why Barbrey Dustin disliked her so, but she was not going to give her reason to dislike her further. _Courtesy is a lady’s armor._

“Why not Larence Hornwood, then? He is of an age with you, even.”

The questions were beginning to pester Sansa, but she kept her composure. “I do not have time to sit with my needlework let alone court anyone at the moment. There are many duties that come with governing that I had not anticipated, especially with a castle in need of so much repair.”

“So it is not as they say…” Lady Dustin took another sip of her stew.

Sansa’s tummy twisted. “What is it they say, my lady?”

“That your heart was given to another.”

“Did the Lord Hornwood tell you so?” Sansa forced a light smile, as if to show how ridiculous such a notion was. Inside, she was berating herself. _Do not look at him. Do not even dare to think such a thing._ She knew exactly where Sandor was sitting, what he was wearing, who he was speaking to at the moment. “An innocent lie to dispel his advances, that’s all.”

Lady Dustin gave her a stern look. “Lies such as those are as fires in a forest, Wardeness. You should know better.”

 _Believe me, I will not make the mistake again._ It was her own fault for trusting anything to Larence, a boy she hardly even knew. But she forced herself not to think on it nor harbor any harsh feelings towards him. Instead she made lighter conversation with Lady Dustin to the best of her ability before finishing her meal and excusing herself from the table.

The heels of her boots clicked in the long and dark corridor. She had decided to take the narrow tunnel inside the inner wall leading to the Sept instead of venturing into the cold. The silence of the corridor left her with no choice but to listen to her thoughts. What had she been thinking, telling anyone her heart belonged to another? All her life she was told whom to court, whom to flirt with, whom to marry. Twice she had married for politics, and she could not even think how many marriage propositions she needed to consider before that. Since she was a little girl, it was one man after the next telling her what she should do with her heart. And the first moment she was given the opportunity to make a decision for herself, to give a man a definitive _‘No’_ and leave it at that, she could hardly stop herself. No, she had to go a step further and admit her heart belonged to another. _Foolish girl._

“Sansa,” a voice called from somewhere up ahead. His tall silhouette was outlined against the candlelight from the Sept. Unmistakable. 

She hurriedly covered the few paces left between them and crushed herself against him in an embrace. “Sandor,” she breathed in relief, “I did not think you would come.”

He did not embrace her. Instead, his large hands on her shoulders pushed her away gently, two warm fingers lifting the stone on her necklace for a moment before speaking. “You couldn’t have made it anymore obvious.”

“I admit I was desperate for a moment with you.” It had only been a few weeks since he had last shared her featherbed, ever since her stores of moontea had run out. Even so, she felt a deep ache between her legs from merely standing next to him. All she wanted to do was drag him down by his tunic and kiss him and… and…

“Let us pray,” Sansa said quickly, shaking her head of any such thoughts at a moment like this.

“You know I don’t pray,” he grated.

“Then just listen.” Sansa led him to an altar. The Sept was empty but for a couple of soldiers huddled in blankets, asleep as far as she could tell. The altar she led them to was that of the Crone, knowing it was one of those least likely to receive visitors at such an hour. She could have just as likely chose the Stranger, but superstition led her the other way. She found a bench in an alcove before the altar and sat, Sandor following soon after. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees and eyes scanning the Sept. The burned side of his face was towards her.

Sansa placed her palms on either side of her, the cold stone of the bench cooling her skin. “I understand your disappointment,” she began, “I said too much, and now word has spread like wildfire throughout the castle that my _heart belongs to another_ -Gods, how _stupid_ I am. I’m just so sorry. I know what you must be thinking-”

Sandor sighed, rubbed at his face. “You’re not stupid, little bird. And I am disappointed, but only because now we must be more careful.”

“I know. We’ve had to be careful for so long.” She placed a delicate hand on his massive shoulder. “I wish you had taken the lordship. If you were a lord we wouldn’t have to hide any longer.” 

The deep sound of his soft laughter told Sansa all she needed to know of his thoughts to that. “I’m not fit to be a lord, girl. You know that. Besides, the Dreadfort is for Stannis to give, not you. Commander of the Guard is more suitable for me.”

After he and Brienne had rescued her from the threat of Cersei’s beast, Sansa had given Brienne the title of Master-at-Arms and would have offered Sandor the title of Lord of the Dreadfort if only he had not been so adamant about staying here at Winterfell. With her. So instead she named him Commander of the Guard.

“I could have at least brought the idea to his attention. We could have tried.” Stannis was a stubborn King, yes, but Sansa had been dealing with Kings and other men of power since she was a little girl. Now, however, she was the Wardeness of the North and her propositions would hold more weight and authority than ever before.

His grey eyes studied her from over his shoulder. “Too hopeful for your own good. He would never give a Northern castle to a Southern man, let alone the second son of a landed knight. A _deserter,_ to add. Hah!”

“You deserted a pretender king. And Stannis is a southerner himself,” Sansa retorted, knowing it meant nothing but saying it anyway. “And yet he sits a Northern throne.”

Sandor leaned back, moving closer to her and warming her side with his heat. “Does that bother you?” he rasped.

“It worries me,” Sansa confessed, looking to the statue of the Crone. “Why does he stay here? Why is he biding his time?”

“Might be he’s decided your father’s chair is more comfortable than the Iron Throne,” he said, sounding serious but obviously japing. “Tell me, little bird,” he looked at the Crone, then down at his hands, “what would have happened had I taken that lordship? What would you have done?” A rough, callused hand came to rest on the stone bench near hers, sun-darkened skin a stark contrast to her pale hand. He was only inches from her.

Sansa stared at the space between their hands. “I would have married you.”

“You would leave Winterfell to live at the Dreadfort, to be my little lady wife? After everything you’ve done to get here? You think Stannis would allow that, after naming you Wardeness?”

“No, I…” she shook her head, trying to think logically but constantly coming back to one single thought, one desire. “I do not want to hide this anymore.”

“Aye, and I do not want these scars anymore. But some things can’t be changed.” His voice sounded far off.

Sansa stared at the red craters in his cheek leading to his jaw. “You seemed so angry with me in the yard.”

“I was.” He said, then turned to meet her eyes. “Then you apologized so prettily.”

Sansa did not fight the smile that tugged at her lips. They ached to meet his, just for a moment. His grey eyes fell to her lips, then reached her eyes again knowingly. She swallowed and summoned some courage for what she was about to ask. “Will you come to my featherbed tonight?”

His chest heaved with a sigh. “I’ll see. Wait for me.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harriet was stoking the fire in the hearth when Sansa was crawling beneath her coverlet. The handmaiden placed extra kindling near the edge of the fireplace in case Sansa grew cold later in the night. Once she was done, Sansa thanked her and bid her goodnight.

She rolled onto her back and stared up at the canopy of her featherbed. She was still sleeping in the bedchambers of her childhood, despite her elevation in station. It was a comforting space despite the sometimes painful memories they would bring. _Happy memories can be painful, too,_ she thought, turning her cheek to look at the chair near her vanity. She would often sit there and observe herself in the mirror while her mother combed her hair, listened to her and gave her advices. She sighed into her pillow, turning to her side and pulling the blankets back to swing her legs over the featherbed. Her feet slid into her slippers and she walked over to the dresser to light the few candles that Harriet had blown out before leaving. She hugged her shoulders over her slip in the slight chill of the large room. The window was left slightly opened, she saw, pulling it all the way closed.

A sound at her chamber door made her turn quickly. After a moment, Sandor was ducking into the chamber and shutting the door quietly behind him, barring it. She let out the breath she had been holding. 

“You came,” she whispered in the dimness, as though afraid someone might hear. Sansa climbed back atop her featherbed, pushing the coverlet back, inviting.

Sandor’s hooded eyes were fixed on her hers as he began working off his tunic. “I’d be a fool not to,” he said hoarsely. 

“Risking everything for me makes you a fool, anyway,” she whispered. Her eyes roved over the dark hills of his naked chest, the hard muscle flexing slightly when he pushed the coverlet further away to accommodate him. 

“That makes two of us,” he rumbled when he crawled into her featherbed, the frame creaking under his weight. His harsh lips found hers immediately. Sansa took a moment to bask in the warmth of those lips, the heat from his chest and arms. Her hand slid across his torso, fingers finding the ridge in his strong back, pulling him towards her. He leaned into her, pushing her back onto her pillow and insisting her mouth open for him when he cupped her jaw with one hand. Sansa complied readily, letting him taste her deeply. His other hand slid down her side over her slip, finding her hip and curling under the curve of her bottom, hitching her leg over his thick waste. The hardness that pressed against her tummy brought her back to her senses.

“Sandor, wait-” she said after managing to pull herself from his wanting mouth.

“What is it?” he growled, his fingers pressing harder into the soft skin of her bottom, impatient.

“I don’t have any more moontea,” she reminded him delicately.

“Fuck,” he muttered from above her. A moment passed between them in silence. Then his hand moved from her hip to the front of her slip and started pulling. “Guess we’ll just have to make do.”

“What?” Sansa went to her elbows, confused by his intentions. His warm hand cupped her over her smallclothes. “Sansa,” he sighed, looking down at her, black strands of hair falling over his scars. “There are other ways to please you. And me.” His middle finger curled into her over the fabric, wetting the cloth of her smallclothes before pinching it and pulling it down to her thighs and over knees. Sansa kicked them off her ankles herself. His hand went right back to its place between her legs, fingers touching her naked flesh now, filling and stretching and caressing her. Sansa’s chest was heaving with her mounting pleasure, her head falling back to her pillow as she let Sandor work her. His thumb rubbed at her nub while his fore and middle fingers teased her entrance. She was getting closer, focusing her thoughts on his teasing fingers, wishing they would go deeper but loving the way they circled just outside, as if promising something but never giving. Her breathing was becoming more scattered, and Sandor brought his other hand to her face, his fingers sliding into her hair. Then she gasped, but his mouth swallowed her shock as one of his slippery fingers made its way to her bottom, pushing the tip into her hole while his thumb pressed on her nub. The shock and pleasure was too much all at once, and she moaned her peak into his lips.

“What on _earth,_ ” she hissed, slapping his hand away when she calmed down.

“Not good?” he asked. Sansa could not see his expression through the darkness, but his tone sounded serious.

“No, I mean – yes, but that’s… that’s unseemly,” she decided, not knowing what else to call it.

Sandor's chuckle was a deep rumble in his chest. The hand that pleased her was flat on her thigh. “Seems you have a taste for the unseemly, little bird.”

“I do not!” She grabbed a pillow from behind her head and threw it at him in feigned fury. He caught it before it could hit him and threw it to the other side of the featherbed. His hand caught her wrist and pinned it down before it made a grab for another pillow. “Did you want to fight me or fuck me?” he rasped. He was pressed against her, his arousal still evident in his breeches.

“Take those off,” she ordered. He released her and her hand went down to the laces of his breeches, her knuckles brushing against his length as she undid them. She could not help herself. “How about I test your new skill on you, see how you like it,” she teased. His hand clamped down on her wrist again. She laughed. “I only jest,” she reassured as she slid down on his body.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She had forgotten how hard this part was. It had been weeks since the last time Sandor had visited her chambers, and any moment now would be the moment he would get up to leave. It was usually right before dawn, before the first call of the roosters in the barn, before the servants made their rounds to the bedchambers. He would sit up, find his clothes scattered about the bedchamber, drag on his boots, and leave without another word. Sansa hugged herself closer to him, breathing in the smell of him where her face rested on his chest, the smell of sweat and leather. A heavy feeling settled in her chest.

“How long can this go on?” she whispered into the dark.

She felt the rise and fall of his chest. “As long as you want. As long as we can get away with.” He was quiet for a moment. Then he spoke again, his chest vibrating with every word. “You were right. We risk everything.”

The heavy feeling only got worse, making her chest feel tight. “Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. I am a Wardeness. I can make a Warden by simply marrying a man. Any man.” She tilted her chin up.

“You could,” he admitted, his large hand petting her hair. “But your people wouldn’t understand. They’d resent you, reject their fealties, depose you, even.” He moved from beneath her, going to sit up. Sansa knew this ritual very well.

She knew what he was saying was true, but some part of her just would not accept that this… this secrecy was to be their fate forever. The cloth of his tunic soon covered his broad back, and then he bent to put on his boots when Sansa spoke again.

“There’s been a mutiny in the North, against my half-brother Jon. They stabbed him…”

“Is that so?” Sandor sounded just as surprised as she was when she heard the news. He sat back down on her featherbed and touched her ankle.

“There was no word of his death, though. A priestess of R’hllor is looking after him. It’s strange, Brienne kept saying he could _come back._ I don’t know what she meant by it but she seemed to have some faith.”

Something dark flickered across Sandor’s face. It did not go unnoticed. “What is it?” she asked worriedly. 

“Nothing, little bird. Stop worrying about your crow brother and get some sleep.” He gave her ankle a squeeze before standing to leave.

“You cannot just give me such a look and leave me questioning,” she said.

He glanced at her window where the horizon was slowly lightening to morning. “If I don’t leave now I’ll end up a crow myself. We’ll speak on it another time.”

“Promise?”

“Aye, promise.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year everyone! My family always says the way you spend the first day of the year is the way the rest of your year goes, so I guess I won't be quitting this gig for at least another year hahaha. Special thanks to the wonderful TopShelfCrazy for being my beta and stopping me from posting garbage on the internet. Enjoy!

The newly hired gardeners were hard at work in the glass gardens early in the morning, pushing carts of vegetables and turning the new soil. The air was more humid than was comfortable, but the architect had decided to lay out his plan for the broken tower here and Sansa did not think it appropriate to ask for relocation. The windows were clear of snow, as the cold could not withstand the heat of the hot springs. The short, burly man seemed to draw much inspiration from the glass garden, overly excited as he showed Sansa his plan. She peered down at the design carefully drawn on the parchment.

“It looks precisely like the original, my lord,” Sansa noted, pointing to an old picture of the burned tower before the lightning had destroyed it. She had decided to order its restoration along with the others, deciding that since no one else had bothered to have the tower rebuilt she might as well have it done while the whole castle was being restored. A newly built watchtower might also prove useful in the future, Sansa did not neglect to consider. She pointed to a separate design on another part of the parchment.

“What is this? I have never seen anything like it.” There were many concentric circles drawn around what appeared to be a lantern-like structure. Several lines drawn from one side converged to form a single horizontal line seemingly to a far point.

Lord Bleron’s beard turned up with his smile. “That, my lady, is a lighthouse design that will change the way lighthouses are built all across Westeros.” He shuffled to the other end of the table closer to the image and pointed his fingers at the lines and concentric circles. “These lenses will be cut in such a way that the light from the oil lamp will travel much further and be hundreds of times brighter than your average lighthouse.”

Sansa was impressed by the improvement, but the burned tower was a watchtower, not a lighthouse. “That is quite impressive, my lord, but aren’t lighthouses mainly used for harbors and ports? Winterfell is far from the sea.”

“That is true, my lady, but with the winter snows coming down harder, a light that would penetrate the storms may prove to be one of the only true guides to the castle. The clouds will cover the stars and the snows will cover the roads. I do think this would be a worthy addition to the watchtower.”

 _A light to penetrate the storms could prove fatal as well._ Enemies as well as friends would be able to see the light, leading them directly to Winterfell’s doorstep. On the other hand, such a device could increase the efficiency of the hunting parties. They were losing on average two or three men for every hunt, mainly due to exposure but others due to the simple fact that those unfamiliar with the terrain could not find their way back. The conditions were becoming quite desperate, she had to admit.

“Very well. Let us have this lighthouse built, but it will only be utilized when we have men outside the walls. Otherwise it may attract unwanted attention.”

“Of course, Wardeness. Do you have any other questions regarding the restoration?”

Sansa tugged lightly at the collar of her cloak, her fingers feeling how warm her skin had become due to the humidity. “Only one more question. How much will this cost?”

The architect placed both hands on the table, looking down at his work. He seemed to be considering. “Well, my lady, we will be needing a number of laborers for this project. I will need some time to recruit men for the job, say three or four days. I will have a precise number for you, then.”

Sansa nodded at the man as he began to roll up his work. Once he was done, he escorted her out of the garden. The cold air was a sweet relief from the warmth of the gardens. They walked into the courtyard, the imposing North Gate on their left. The gate had not been opened for many years.

“I hear King Stannis has ordered that trebuchets be built along the southern wall,” Sansa commented, “And he wants to reinforce the bulwarks there.” Knowing as much was enough to solidify the fact that Stannis was indeed planning to stay at Winterfell a while longer. _And expecting more war to come here,_ she thought with some worry.

“You heard true, my lady. Although I do not foresee threats from any angles soon, however. Not so recently after the Lannister troops were defeated.”

“I share your sentiments, my lord. However, wouldn’t you agree we reinforced the northern wall as well? It would not do to be vulnerable from any angle.” Sansa hoped her paranoia was not too evident.

“I agree, but… that would mean more men and equipment. And that means-”

“More coin, yes, I know. Perhaps I should mention it in my meeting with the King later.” _Add to my list of requests a small loan of Gods know how much. An indebted King will not take unkindly to that at all._ A nervousness crept through her.

“That seems best, Wardeness.” The two of them continued walking toward the Guard’s Hall. Sansa was hoping she might find Sandor in the armory. He usually went to retrieve his weapons for practice at this hour. She was just saying farewell to Lord Bleron before a small group of old farmers intercepted her path. One of the women had a hand on her wide hip and the scrawny legs of a rooster in the other, the poor bird hanging limp upside down.

“Sorry to be botherin’ ye, Warn’ness,” she addressed Sansa with a pleading look on her face. “But I come to ye to report a crime-”

“Wasn’t no crime done here, m’lady,” interjected a tall, lanky farmer missing a couple of teeth. “Ol’Katya here’s not familiar with our ways.”

“Ways! What ways? Yer ways include thievery? Why, if we were back’n Last Hearth ye’d lose a finger before the thought a stealin’ ever crossed yer mind.”

“Stealing! I was only _borrowing_ the damn fowl!” The man looked to Sansa with wide eyes, hoping to garner her sympathy. The group that followed behind them seemed to be casually observing the squabble.

“Forgive me, but what exactly is going on here?” she finally asked. She was beginning to grow accustomed to mediating such disagreements amongst the commonfolk. If she did not take charge now, things were likely to spiral out of hand quickly.

“I caught this one tryna _steal_ my rooster right from under m’nose, m’lady. Oh, lucky I’m the earliest riser in this keep-”

The man held his palms out. “Wasn’t tryna hide, even! Here, we share the livestock in the winter.”

Sansa cut in before the woman spoke again. “It’s true, my lady.” The small crowd that had gathered now looked at the poor woman for her reaction. Sansa proceeded with caution, hoping not to embarrass the woman. “When winter comes, the villagers from Wintertown are invited within the castle walls. Of course, you are assigned your own chicken coop to keep track of your stock but sometimes conditions may be such that roosters must be shared amongst everyone, so production is not stifled and others do not go hungry. You understand, I hope?”

The rooster flopped a bit when the woman crossed her arms over her large bosom.

“Aye, m’lady. Understood.”

Sansa was inwardly relieved. “As well it should also be understood that those who are not from Winterfell are not accustomed to our ways, yet.” She addressed the man now. “And we should take care to inform those from whom we borrow when and what exactly we are borrowing.”

The man nodded his acknowledgment, and that was enough for Sansa for now. She offered the chance for any more questions or requests, as was proper. One younger girl stepped forward, complaining that her father, the blacksmith, was overworked and faring quite badly.

“He canno’ work in his condition much longer, m’lady. His knuckles are all red and swollen and he’s in pain all the time. These battles after battles have put him through so much. Please, m’lady, you must do something.”

“I’ll have the maester check in on him,” she assured the girl, “And I will look to have another blacksmith or apprentice assist him.” Sansa did not know any other blacksmiths or apprentices, though. _Add that to the list for King Stannis._ Sansa addressed a few more of their questions before she managed to extract herself from the dwindling group. Finally making her way towards the armory, she hoped she would still find Sandor there.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The armory stood as it did any other day; dark and dusty and nearly barren. There were not as many men within as there usually was, but after a few steps and past a number of curious eyes Sansa heard a familiar voice.

“So, how does it suit me?” asked a young girl with bright green hair. Wylla moved the much too large sword she carried in slow, sweeping motions. Podrick was just about to provide his opinion before he realized Sansa was standing there.

“M-my lady!” At his address, Wylla whipped around to face her.

“Wylla, you shouldn’t play with those swords,” Sansa said, taking the weapon away from the young girl. “It’s all rusty and much too heavy. You could have hurt yourself.”

“I wouldn’t have let that happen, my lady,” Podrick reassured. “We were being careful.”

_Not careful enough._ Sansa tried to remain unassuming, but she had found Podrick and Wylla alone with one another far too many times to count and it was beginning to become suspicious. It was improper for a Lord’s daughter to be spending so much time with a lowly squire, especially now that she was no longer a child but a young woman flowered. Sansa could hardly reprimand them with a clear conscious, however. Sandor was below her station and she knew how painful it would be to be kept away from him. She placed the old sword on a rack, noting the wretched condition it was in before turning to Podrick once more. The skinny young man looked apologetic, so Sansa decided to let this go.

“It doesn’t suit you as well as a fine gown would,” Sansa said, speaking to Wylla.

“Couldn’t I wear fine gowns _and_ learn the ways of the sword?” she retorted, leaning on one leg with her arms crossed against her chest. Podrick choked back a laugh.

Wylla rolled her eyes. “Not at the same time, you dunce.” She turned back to Sansa. “What brings you to the armory, my lady?”

“I’m looking for Clegane. Have either of you seen him?”

“Last I saw he was out training in the yard by the East Gate, my lady. He should be finishing up soon,” said Podrick.

Sansa thanked him and left towards the eastern yard, deciding against telling them to be more careful. She trusted they would be wise enough to know on their own. Pulling her cloak tighter across her chest she stepped out into the yard. The ground was wet with slush and small puddles of water from the last snowfall. A flat mound of dirt in the center of the yard provided some steady footing for the practicing soldiers and knights. About seven men were out there now, Sandor among them. He was leaning against a wooden railing and watching as two younger men picked at one another with their blunted tourney swords, occasionally calling out pointers and advices. The unburned side of Sandor’s face was a little shiny with sweat and he looked to be warm even after abandoning his cloak. He was wearing a brown leather jerkin over a sleeved shirt, fine for his usual attire. It was not long before he noticed Sansa walking along the inner edge of the yard.

He pushed forward from where he was leaning and began walking towards her, the limp in his leg only slightly noticeable now. Sansa tried to think of something inconspicuous to say.

"Good morrow, Commander."

"Wardeness," he replied, his steps slowing a few feet away. From past his arm a few men turned to see where he had gone. They appeared to be waiting.

"I did not mean to interrupt," she said, feeling a bit embarrassed for pulling him away from his duties.

Sandor shook his head, running a hand through straight black hair before turning to regard the men in training, telling them to carry on without him. "You wouldn't come find me if it wasn't important," he rasped. They began walking in the direction of the Great Keep.

"I wanted to speak to you. I don't know how important it is... How was your morning?"

Sandor raised his good brow at her, his mouth a thin line. "The youngsters need too much work, the old men are too tired, and any men in between are too few in number. I'm doing what I can, as is Brienne."

His tone was flat when he spoke of his work, but Sansa knew despite how desperate he described the situation, he enjoyed training others. He was happy to be safe and to have a purpose again, as was she.

"How are you?" she asked, wondering if she would ever get him to admit such a thing.

His laugh was rough. "Hungry, little bird."

"You haven't had your morning meal yet?" Her hand found his forearm before she realized what she was doing. The reaction made her heart leap in a terrible way. Dropping it quickly before anyone saw, she spoke again. "Perhaps we should go see what the cooks have prepared. I only had some tea and wouldn't mind a bit of something myself."

Sandor looked at her in a strange way before nodding in agreement, following her to the kitchens. As they walked, she told him of her talks with the architect and the interactions with the commonfolk. Sansa had been intending to ask Sandor his opinion about the situation with the blacksmith and the armory.

"You've seen the swords and shields yourself," he rasped. "They're like to crumble to rust in your hands before they can protect you. Wouldn't that be a pretty sight on a battlefield? It's our own damn fault. No one taught these green boys how to wipe their own arses let alone properly care for a sword."

Sansa wrinkled her nose in distaste, but then an idea came to her. "You were a squire once, before... Perhaps you could take on a squire and show him the proper way?"

He snorted. "Aye, I'd take on a squire I could never knight. They'll be lining up from here to Dorne."

"Podrick was willing to squire for Brienne. And squires can be knighted by any other knight. They will be lining up, but only because you are one of the strongest and most skilled warriors this castle has ever seen."

"Enough, bird. I see the merit in your suggestion. I'll consider it."

Sansa could not help but smile. She knew that when it came to Sandor, _I'll consider it_ very well meant _I'll do it_.

When they entered the great hall, it had mostly emptied but for the servants who had already begun to clean up the trestle tables and buffet. Sansa decided to lead them instead to the kitchens where they might still find some warm, untouched bread. A double door on their right led into the kitchens, where the air still smelled of freshly baked goods, servants weaving in and out as they cleaned the stoves and made ready for when they would begin preparing the midday meals later. With Sandor trailing close behind, Sansa spotted a woven basket with one remaining loaf of bread. She quickly pointed at it and Sandor snatched it up before anyone could see. Sansa picked up a couple of pieces of cheese left on a platter and the two of them moved closer towards the windows at the wall. Finding a sill that was low enough, they sat to eat their meager meals.

"We'll have to share," he rasped, breaking the loaf of bread in half with his hands. He offered Sansa her half and she in turn gave him some of the cheese she had taken.

"I have an audience with the King this afternoon," Sansa said after swallowing a bite.

"About what?"

She looked through the frosted windowpane at her shoulder. The morning sun was almost at its peak.

"I must see what I can do about Jon. I do not think he will allow me to travel to the Wall but I will ask anyway."

Sandor looked at her, his eyes almost angry. "He'd never allow it. Save your breath." He turned back to the bread in his hands.

"He? Or you?" She asked, not really expecting an answer. "I must ask anyway. He's my half brother and he's dying, or he's already dead. I should be by his side." Her throat was beginning to tighten as she felt the tears threatening to flow. "I do not even know whether I should begin grieving. He could be gone already…” _Gods, Jon._

The bread was torn into small pieces in her hands. His voice was cold as stone when he spoke. “Start grieving.”

Sansa looked up from her hands. “Why must you be so cruel?”

Grey eyes glanced at hers, and what Sansa saw in them was grave. “I promised you a story,” he rasped before taking another bite. Sansa waited patiently. “Remember when I told you I ran into a group of bandits, when I found your sister?” He waited for her to nod. “Lord Beric Dondarrion was their leader. Do you remember him? He was looking for Gregor.” Sansa remembered Lord Beric very faintly. Jeyne had once thought him handsome, long ago. Sandor went on. “After your little wolf sister accused me of murder I had a trial by combat. My opponent was Dondarrion, but there was nothing natural about this fight. When he took off his breastplate, he had a gaping hole in his chest straight through to his back. He lit his sword aflame with his own blood as though he pulled it from the seven hells himself.”

He began slowly lifting the sleeve over his forearm as he spoke, revealing the garish burns. Sansa often let her hand hover over that part of him when they were alone.

“I was a mad man at that point. The strength behind my sword cut his in two, then ripped into him from his shoulder to his heart.” Two long fingers traced his chest where the sword struck. “I saw my steel embedded there. The blood was black like-”

“Like that man, in the woods,” Sansa finished. “The Lannister man.”

“Aye, little bird. Like his. But that’s not all. They had a red priest in tow. Thoros of Myr, he was called. He brought Dondarrion back.”

A chill ran down Sansa’s spine. “What do you mean?” She was so engrossed in his words she had forgotten they were in the kitchens entirely.

“He just stood there, nearly cut in half with a hole in his chest. And he stood there.”

“How can that be?” Sansa could hardly believe what he was telling her, but she knew Sandor would never lie, especially about something like this.

He just shook his head. “I passed out after that. The burn was too much.”

A thousand thoughts and questions were swimming around in Sansa’s mind. Would Jon have the same fate? Would he be… _brought back?_ Would he even be himself, or a monster like that man in the woods? “Did you speak with him at all? Afterward?”

Sandor shook his head, looking down at the bread in his hands. “They gave me back my horse and armor and sword and let me free before I got another look at him... Sansa,” he intoned, “don’t get hopeful. You’ll only end up hurt. Those red priests have dealings with dark things, no good can come from that.”

She shifted a little on the stone sill, watched as the last of the servants pushed a wet rag across one of the tabletops. “I know you’re trying to protect me. But Brienne has had experiences with a red priest as well. Perhaps her tale will be different.”

“Perhaps,” he replied, “or perhaps it won’t. Best prepare for it not to be pretty.”

Something within her knew he was right, but another part of her still clung to hope. She needed to keep her thoughts hopeful else she might succumb to the same maddening grief she felt when she was a young girl in King’s Landing. She wanted anything but to go back to that. She wanted Jon alive.

A warmth at her hand made her realize she had been silent for some time. Sandor’s rough palm covered the back of her hand and her heart thumped in her chest. She moved it away. “Someone might see,” she whispered, but it was not the fear of being seen that frightened her so. It was the fear of how she almost turned her hand into his without a care for the outside world, how natural it felt to do such a thing. And how such a simple thing might ruin her.

Sansa stood. “I must review some ledgers with one of Stannis’ men. Lord Ryan or Renald, I cannot remember.”

Sandor was still at a height with her where he sat, his face unreadable. “I’ll escort you,” he finally said.

They took the tunnels to the Maester’s Turret where the ledgers were kept. There was more traffic than usual in the long and narrow halls. Maids and servants and men-at-arms turned into numerous doorways and side tunnels. It was dark as well, so the torches in the sconces on the walls remained lit at all hours of the day and night. Sansa did not quite like taking the tunnels, but sometimes it was easier than wading through the slush and snow in the courtyards. The servants worked hard to keep the yards clean, of course, but even they tired of keeping up with the unceasing snow.

They were nearing the stair for the Turret when Sansa spoke again.

“I feel nervous about this meeting with Stannis,” she admitted. “I have to ask for a loan to restore the watchtower and put in a request for an apprentice for the blacksmith and ask about Jon and-”

Sandor stopped her with a hand placed on the small of her back. “You’ll be fine, little bird. I’ll be there to fight him off in case he decides to attack you.”

She scoffed. “That isn’t funny. He makes me very uneasy. Petyr said-”

“Fuck what that piece of shit said,” he spat. “You can handle this better than Littlefucker ever could.”

Sansa straightened a little more at that. “Yes,” she agreed, “I can.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The letters before the King had been sent all the way from Braavos. He had ordered one of his men, Justin Massey, to travel east with a representative of the Iron Bank to recruit armies of sellswords for his cause. He was to use a large loan of money from the Iron Bank in order to achieve this, but according to his letters he was dealing with some competition for the companies. That put Stannis in a bad mood, which only made Sansa more nervous. Lady Dustin’s presence across the round table from her did not make her feel any more at ease. Sansa scanned the solar for Sandor and found him standing guard near a blank wall where a tapestry had once hung. His muscled arms were crossed before him, dark eyes watching her. _I can handle this._

Soon after the servants had served them their tea Stannis turned his attention to her.

“Lady Stark. You requested this meeting. What is it you’d like to discuss?”

His question sounded more like a statement to her. Sansa straightened. “Your Grace, I’d first like to thank you for agreeing to hear me. I come to you with some plans for the castle. I’ve reviewed some designs to restore the burned watchtower with Lord Bleron,” Sansa nodded towards a servant who procured the parchment with the architect’s design. “As you can see, there would be an addition to the watchtower. A lighthouse, but one of an ingenious design. Lord Bleron has explained to me that the light would be able to penetrate the thickest of winter storms, and reach distances never before seen. We’ve been losing too many men in the hunt, and I think such an invention may help to prevent any more loses.”

Stannis frowned down at the design before him. “I cannot afford to lose any more men. Not now.”

Sansa took that as a good sign. She decided to be upfront with her request. “Lord Bleron will need to recruit some laborers for the restoration, and I will need a loan from Your Grace in order to pay the men’s wages.”

He barely seemed to give it a second thought. “Very well. Have your man draw up a number.”

Taken by surprise, Sansa almost forgot how to react. “Thank you, Your Grace. You are very generous.”

Stannis was silent at that. The other lords and ladies seemed to be awaiting her next words.

“Your Grace, I have heard the commonfolk this morning and they say the blacksmith has fallen ill. His joints are swollen and painful and, though I have had the maester look on him, I think it would be best to look for an apprentice for the blacksmith. The equipment in the armory has been worse for wear recently, and our men need proper weapons for training.”

It was Lady Dustin who spoke before Stannis. “What would you have the King do about that, Lady Stark?” There was a casual bitterness in her voice.

Sansa turned to address the older woman. “My lady, I thought with His Grace’s permission a messenger should be sent to the nearby towns in search for an apprentice.”

“His Grace cannot be troubled with such miniscule tasks. You are the Wardeness, you need not ask for permission for these things. You must carry them out yourself. Unless, of course, you consider yourself incapable-”

“I am perfectly capable, my Lady. Though I thank you for your concern.” Sansa turned back to the King. “Your Grace, forgive me, I will move on.”

Stannis only nodded at her sternly, his thin hands folded over the table.

“Your Grace, I have heard the news about my half-brother Jon. He was fatally injured with the betrayal of his men, but Your Grace’s priestess has been looking after him, and for that I am eternally grateful. Naturally, as his last remaining family, I must ask your permission to visit him at the Wall-”

“No,” he stated, interrupting her. “You may write to Lord Snow should he come to. Otherwise your place is here, governing Winterfell.”

Sansa could feel all eyes on her face like a hailstorm. Her heart was breaking, and she fought to suppress the humiliating flush that threatened. _Don’t beg him. You’re above that._ She swallowed, glanced at Sandor once more, who gave her an almost imperceptible nod of encouragement.

“Of course, Your Grace. Perhaps instead Your Grace wouldn’t be opposed to sending a troop of soldiers to guard him while he is being cared for. In his state he is most vulnerable and his men have already turned against him.”

“You are asking me to reduce my men even further. I am reluctant to do so.”

Her confidence was quickly plummeting. “I understand, Your Grace, but I beseech you. Lord Snow is your faithful ally. He was prepared to come to your aid before his men turned against him.”

Dark blue eyes regarded her from the short distance across the table. He was quiet for a long moment before he responded. “Would it make you happy, Lady Stark?”

Sansa blinked. The question took her completely unawares. She did not know how to read into it. From afar, Sandor had narrowed his eyes suspiciously at the King.

“Very much so, Your Grace,” Sansa managed, slightly uncomfortable.

Stannis’ sullen face remained unchanged. “I’ll send fifty men to the Wall to guard him as he heals. That should suffice for a while. I have a strong ally in the Commander Snow.”

Sansa thanked him with as much grace as she could muster. If she could not be by Jon’s side, at least he’d have some loyal men for his protection in his state. The meeting continued with some negotiations between Lord Manderly and the King. Sansa sipped her tea patiently as she listened to the deliberations, but she could feel the cold stare of Lady Dustin on her the whole time. She decided it best to ignore her for the duration of the meeting.

Once they were excused, she found Sandor by her side.

“You did well,” he said, “the King likes you, though he may not look it.”

“Didn’t you find it strange when he asked me that?” _Would it make me happy? What on earth does that mean?_ “Was he mocking me?”

Sandor seemed equally perplexed. “That was more Renly’s way, even Robert. Not Stannis, though. The man is serious in his every word.” He looked down at her at his side as they walked, noting her obvious distress. “Don’t think on it too much. You got what you wanted.”

“What I wanted was to go the Wall,” she corrected.

“No, you didn’t, little bird,” he rasped. “Trust me.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The hour was late when Sansa finished writing the letter. The fire in the hearth was waning, but she decided against stoking it. Her bedchamber was warm enough and she’d soon be going to sleep. She sealed the letter, signing its recipient’s name on the outer parchment. _Jon Snow._ She hoped he would see those words soon.

A wisp of smoke rose from the candle when she blew it out, thin and grey, reflected in the moonlight. She pulled the curtains closed at her window before crawling into her featherbed. Laying her head on her pillow was a feeling she’d been longing for all day, tired eyes falling to a close almost immediately. Her mind, however, was restless. Her thoughts kept going back to the meeting with Stannis, how Lady Dustin had attempted to embarrass her in front of the other lords, calling her _incapable._ It made her heart sink with nervousness, as though her very life was being threatened by a few mere words spoken across a table.

She pulled the coverlet closer over her shoulder. Maybe Lady Dustin was right, and she should have known better than to bring petty discourses to the King’s attention. She wished someone had told her as much beforehand. But she could not readily seek Lady Dustin’s council, else she might try to sabotage her. She still did not know why the lady disliked her so. Sansa turned around to the other side of her featherbed, going over every interaction, every single word she had shared with Lady Dustin, trying to discover where she had gone wrong. Had she offended her with some southron courtesy? Had she accidently spoken ill of her friend? She stared wide-eyed at the single line of moonlight between the curtains of her window, all tiredness suddenly dissipated.

She did not know how long she lay there tossing and turning in bed, until a knock came to her door.

Lifting her head from the pillow, she watched the door, listening intently. _Did I mishear?_

Then it came again.

Sansa pushed back her covers quickly, walking lightly on bare feet to the door. She unlocked it quietly and pulled slowly, opening unto darkness. “Sandor?” she whispered.

A pale face stared at her a few paces away, feminine. Her heart sunk when the face spoke. “Sansa?” whispered Jeyne, “May I sleep with you?”

Sansa did not realize how hard she was breathing until it came her time to reply. She took a moment to calm herself down as best she could. “Yes, of course. Come in.” She opened the chamber door wider for her old friend to enter, locking it behind her. _Gods, oh Gods tell me she did not hear!_ “You frightened me, Jeyne. It is very late.”

“I know. Forgive me, please,” she begged, already climbing into her featherbed. “I just couldn’t take it anymore.” The young woman’s voice sounded frail.

 _She’s not mentioning his name. This is good._ “What do you mean?” Sansa asked, joining her beneath the coverlet.

“I’ve just been having these terrible dreams. Every night it’s the same. There are shadows,” she whispered from across the pillows. “Shadows but they’re _alive,_ huddled together in the dark and moving toward me.” There was a tremble in her voice, as though she were about to cry. “I don’t know where I am but it’s somewhere enclosed. It reminds me of the crypts. And they keep moving, and they get close, Sansa, so close, and then I can _hear_ them.”

Jeyne was beginning to frighten Sansa even further. She did not want to ask her what it was she heard. Instead, Sansa reached out a hand to rub the girl’s upper arm. “It’s only a silly dream, Jeyne. Let your mind rest, now.” It was easier said than done.

“I’ve _tried_ but they just keep coming back. I always wake before they take me, but they always do. They always take me, and I lay awake for hours afterward wondering what I could have done to change it, how I could have fought-”

“Shh, now. Dreams cannot harm you or touch you. You’re just fine, Jeyne. You’re here now, and I’m here with you.”

Her friend’s hitched breathing was sounding calmer by the heartbeat. After some time in silence, Sansa listened to her steady breathing. _She’s asleep,_ she thought, relieved through every ounce of her being. She turned to lie on her back, sending a silent prayer of thanks to the Gods. Eventually, she joined her friend in deep sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Winged Knights and their Favors  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/4168422/chapters/9409416


End file.
